‘You do put me in a good mood, Tayo.’
‘That’s good. I’m here to please. Omotayo, remember? The man who brings joy. Come,’ he beckoned, ‘dance with me.’
She watched as he pushed up his sleeves to reveal the fine muscles in his forearms, which again set her heart aflutter.
‘I’ll just watch,’ she said, knowing there was no way she could move with his ease or flair. She would end up stepping on his feet.
‘Okay, as you please. If you don’t want to dance then I’ll just have to tell you the Satchmo story.’
‘No, stop!’ she laughed, tossing a cushion at his legs. ‘You’ve told me that story so many times that I’ve memorised it! In 1961 Satchmo played on the Ikorodu Road at Bobby Benson’s club. The place was packed and you were sooooooo proud to see a gifted American Negro inspired by the beats of Africa. So proud that you will personally write Satchmo’s biography one day.’
‘I will,’ he laughed. ‘So you see, next time you should dance and then you won’t have to listen to my stories. But, first, I’m making you coffee.’ He lifted the stylus back to the beginning of the song and marched off, humming.
Vanessa smiled to herself as she waited, remembering the first time that Tayo had talked to her about Satchmo’s visit to Nigeria and she imagined herself as the reporter. She had always wanted to be a foreign reporter in Africa, but now she wasn’t so sure — Malcolm X had been so critical of white journalists there. Tayo returned with the coffees and asked about her day, so she told him about the little things — the struggles with her work and her continuing aversion to college food.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking concerned and then offering more of his mother’s food.
‘You’re such a love.’ She wriggled to the edge of her seat, touched by his concern. Africans, she had noticed, were in the habit of saying sorry even if something wasn’t their fault. And then he looked down at where she had tapped his knee and she blushed.
‘What’s the essay that’s causing you all this headache?’ he asked.
‘American slavery, secession, and the old Lincoln-Douglass debates,’ she answered, clasping both hands round the mug. ‘The topic is interesting, but it’s not modern history. I keep thinking about Malcolm X and Martin Luther King, as well as everything that is happening in South Africa — you know, real modern history.’
‘So you must write about these things. Find a way of putting them in your essay, and then submit more articles to the newspapers.’
‘You think so?’ She clasped her mug a little tighter, watching the bits of cream bob up and down in the circle of coffee. She wondered what Tayo was really thinking.
‘Of course you should write, Vanessa. You have a flair for writing, and you already have your own unique voice.’
She smiled, gazing at him for a safe moment. She loved the way he pronounced her name. ‘VA-nessa’, he said, with the accent on the V, making it sound strong and exotic.
‘And now I have a new song for you.’ He took her mug and placed it next to his on the desk. ‘Listen to this.’ He shook another record out of its sleeve.
‘Who is it?’
‘Listen.’
‘Ella?’ she guessed.
‘No.’
‘Lena Horne!’
‘No.’
‘Who then?’ She jumped up and snatched the sleeve from his hands.
‘Hey!’ He laughed, chasing her back to the chair.
‘What a Little Moonlight Can Do, Billie Holiday,’ she read the label, holding it up high out of his reach. ‘But it doesn’t sound like her — it’s happy,’ she said, handing it back. ‘Let’s hear it again.’
He lifted the stylus and placed it on the record. She thought he was going to join her on the sofa, but instead he moved the coffee table and brought his chair closer to hers.
‘So which Billie Holiday songs do you remember?’ he asked. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks. ‘I can’t really remember the titles, but there were some songs that Mum was always listening to when Father was still in Nigeria.’
‘It must have been lonely for her.’
Vanessa nodded. One day she would tell him about Mother’s struggles, but not now.
‘Will you show me a photograph of your mother?’
‘Of course.’
He stood up and took an envelope from his drawer and then, choosing one of the photographs, he began pointing out who was who in the photograph that was taken on the day he left for England. Vanessa nodded, taking the black-and-white print from his hand for a better look. In the picture, Tayo’s head was tilted, looking up and smiling as though there were something interesting on the roof of the photographer’s studio, while his brother Biyi kept an eye on the little sister. Biyi, wearing a smart checked shirt unbuttoned at the neck, was handsome too. His little brother, Remi, was the only person staring solemnly into the camera, and he wore traditional clothes like his mother and sister. His tiny hand rested on his mother’s lap, next to her jewelled fingers and wrists. His mother wasn’t smiling, just looking into the camera wearing her head tie (or gele as Tayo called it), which stood tall and made her look regal. What a proud-looking mother, Vanessa thought. His sister, Bisi, was grinning at the photographer, too young to be flirting, though it looked like that was precisely what she was doing.
‘And your father?’
Tayo passed her another picture.
‘Your photographers must instruct everyone not to smile,’ she laughed, noting the seriousness in the father’s face. Three tribal marks ran deep across each cheek. Tayo didn’t resemble his father at all, only the eyes with the thick eyebrows.
‘Any more?’ she asked.
‘That’s it.’
‘Oh come on!’ She tugged at the envelope.
‘It’s only a football photograph, and one of Christine. She’s here at Oxford as you know, but she’s related to our family,’ he explained, letting her look for herself.
‘I didn’t know that,’ Vanessa felt relieved, staring at Christine’s beautiful dark eyes and the perfectly arching eyebrows. Her skin was smooth and her hair swept up high in a Sophia Loren style. She could have been a model. ‘How is she related to you?’
‘Well, sort of like a cousin,’ Tayo said standing up to change the record.
After a while, she placed the photographs on his pillow. ‘Tayo, can I ask you something?’
‘Anything you like.’
‘Do you think I could be a journalist?’
‘Absolutely! Besides, you’re a journalist already, and a fine one at that.’
‘No, but I mean a real one. Could I write about Africa? I mean, not so much could I write, but would I be accepted?’
‘Why not? Of course you would. Vanessa Richardson,’ he said, writing her name in the air. ‘Africa Correspondent. I can see it already.’
‘Even if I’m white?’
‘And what’s wrong with being British?’
‘Well, it’s just that with all this talk of indigenisation. I mean, I do understand and I do know it’s important but …’
‘Vanessa, my friend, Africa needs as many good journalists as it can get — African and British. There’s so much to be done in our continent, and you would be perfect.’
She turned, accidentally brushing her leg against his as he sat down beside her.
‘What will you play next?’ she asked, trying not to blush when he stroked her knee.
‘What would you like?’ He reached for her hands.
‘Anything,’ she whispered, as he gave her hands a gentle squeeze before letting go.
‘I’ll surprise you, then.’ He stood up to change the record and stretched out an arm. ‘Come,’ he whispered, this time offering his hands.
She reached for him, and he pulled her up. Her heart was thumping and her feet shuffled clumsily as he wrapped one arm around her waist and then the other, moving her away from the chair with the first notes of Ellington and Coltrane’s In a Sentimental Mood. She rested her head
against his chest and closed her eyes, allowing her body to sway a little to the music. He kissed the top of her head and, after a while, let go of her waist. He placed warm hands against her cheeks and lifted her face to his. She wanted to kiss him, but her heart was pounding so loudly that she found herself turning away out of embarrassment. Gently, he placed her head back on his chest and kept on dancing.
Chapter 10
Simon suggested that they spend Easter in Paris. His Uncle Rupert owned an apartment that they could use while he was away holidaying in Guadeloupe. Simon would take his girlfriend, Nina, and Tayo could take Vanessa. Tayo liked the idea, but doubted whether Vanessa’s father would let her spend a week away from home in the company of men. He need not have worried. English fathers were either not as strict as their Nigerian counterparts, or their daughters were more cunning.
The apartment was located in the fashionable 9th arrondissement, close to the Place de la Madeleine in an affluent area of the city where women wearing furs and carrying miniature dogs strolled the Place Vendôme and Champs Elysées. The women amused Tayo for he could tell that being seen was just as important to them, if not more important, than what they purchased. What would it be like, he wondered, to sit and watch their comings and goings? And what would his mother make of them? But he and Vanessa never stayed long enough to observe and, except for a visit to the Opéra and an evening of coffees and mille-feuilles at the Café de la Paix, they spent little time in the neuvième. Instead, for the first few days, they walked through the Jardin des Tuileries onto the Seine and over to the left bank, which was Vanessa’s favourite part of the city. Paris was a place Vanessa knew well, as she had visited it many times as a child, and on their walks she recounted, for Tayo’s benefit, its history. She explained to him the origin of the Ile de la Cité and the distinctive architectures along the Seine. It was Tayo’s first visit and each day he found himself newly impressed by its beauty. It made him want to travel to as many European countries as possible before returning to Nigeria, and especially to the famous cities of Vienna, Prague and Amsterdam. In a strange way, France reminded Tayo of Nigeria, even though in its appearance it was quite different from anything back home. The buildings were old, the diet rich in dairy products, and the climate cool, but in its feel was something reminiscent of home. It might have been the bustle, the incessant talking and the way people argued on the streets. The bureaucracy was also excessive, like home and there were many Africans — French-speaking ones. Vanessa had bought him his first writing journal to record his thoughts, which he began doing on their first day.
Today I can’t stop smiling. I imagine walking with you forever, hand-in-hand, strolling through the Jardin de Luxembourg. It seems like we could laugh and talk, and never run out of things to say. This afternoon, as we sipped our cafés au lait at Les Deux Magots, and as you charmed the propriétaire with your fluent French, I watched you with such pride. I love you Vanessa, so much that I think of nothing else. Tomorrow we will visit new places, but it hardly matters where we go —just to be with you is heaven.
The next day, however, was not so romantic, for while Tayo and Vanessa were out on the streets of Montmartre, a Congolese man approached them and asked to take a photograph.
‘I’ll make a beautiful picture. You give me your address, Mademoiselle, and I send it to you.’
‘Rubbish,’ Tayo thought. It was obvious that the man had other intentions, and yet Vanessa gave him her address! Tayo was quiet for the rest of the afternoon and felt annoyed because Vanessa could not see for herself what was bothering him. It grew into a long simmering argument that would only be forgotten the following morning as they walked to the Sorbonne, down the Rue des Ecoles, in search of Présence Africaine. In the tiny bookshop, filled with books by African and Caribbean authors, Tayo thought, not for the first time, about Christine and how much she would have liked the place. Out of guilt, he bought her a copy of the Revue Présence Africaine with special essays in tribute to Malcolm X. He also bought some work by James Baldwin, which he would later read with Vanessa, together on a park bench. And this was the pattern of each of their days: long stretches spent wandering Paris followed by evenings with Simon and Nina. They lived the bohemian life, eating baguettes with brie and saucisson, and drinking red wine as they debated world politics. They spoke of America, of Malcolm’s tragic death and of Vietnam. Vanessa and Simon argued against American intervention while he and Nina played devil’s advocate. On the final night they talked for hours on the subject of society and who was best placed to critique it. Vanessa suggested that only those who had travelled away from home could really see their countries for what they were, which inevitably led them to Herodotus and De Tocqueville. Tayo wondered how he would perceive Nigeria once he returned. Would he see things more clearly? And what, as a foreigner, were his thoughts on England? What insights might he have to offer?
The next morning, on their last full day in France, they were to visit Versailles and were packing a picnic. They were almost ready to leave when the telegram arrived: Christine was dead. Suicide. It had been an overdose and the body was found only several days later by the cleaning lady. Ike was the one who gave Tayo the details over the phone, telling him that relatives had come immediately to take the body away and clear out her room. ‘Why did she do this?’ Ike kept asking. Tayo did what he could to reassure him, telling him that these were questions no one could answer, but inside he asked the same questions and more. Everyone believed that things between him and Christine had ended long ago but, in reality, it had been only a few weeks since Tayo had stopped visiting her. She had sent him several notes that he’d ignored as his relationship with Vanessa had grown more serious. Now he felt devastated.
Even though there was nothing in the notes to suggest desperation, Tayo felt that had he responded to them, the suicide wouldn’t have happened. Christine had told him many times that she felt caught between two lands, never fully belonging to England or Nigeria, but he had never taken it seriously, always thinking that she was the strong and privileged one. But now he could see it—the peripatetic lifestyle contributing to her anxieties at Oxford and amplifying her desire to please her family with academic success. But the taking of her life? How could she have done this? Why hadn’t she talked to someone? And why, how, had they all failed to realise the depth of her despair? He asked himself why he hadn’t been honest enough to tell her that he wasn’t ready for a serious relationship, instead of making up excuses he knew she hadn’t believed anyway. Why hadn’t he been more of a man and told her that he had once loved her, but that his feelings towards her had changed and now he was in love with Vanessa. That perhaps his motivation for resuming things with Christine and not making a clean break were selfish. He’d felt flattered that she needed him and pleased that Ike couldn’t have her. He hadn’t been honest with her or with himself. And now he was caught up in another web of untruths. He had lied to Vanessa about Christine.
He still had Christine’s notes. He couldn’t at first bring himself to re-read them, yet some of her words were already stamped in his brain: Bolaji tells us you are busy with your new girl. Please, spare a few moments for your old friend. The notes sat on his Oxford desk, and, next to them the journals that he bought for Christine in Paris. He flicked through them, tears welling in his eyes as he realised that she might have already been dead when he bought them. And then he thought of Vanessa who would by now be back in France for the summer. How patient she’d been as he grieved for Christine.
‘She’s not what you think,’ he found himself mumbling as though Christine were with him. ‘Vanessa’s not just any white woman.’
He was supposed to be packing his things to spend the summer with his cousin in Bradford, a trip he had planned months before, but he couldn’t bring himself to start. Instead, he sat before his empty trunk grieving for Christine, missing Vanessa, and staring at the Nigerian newspaper cutting sent by his father.
Christine Arinze, who died of sudden illnes
s while studying abroad at Oxford University. May her soul rest in peace. April 4, 1965.
‘Rest in peace, rest in peace,’ Tayo whispered.
Chapter 11
Vanessa worried about Tayo, not knowing how best to comfort him. She’d hoped that he would return to France with her, but he seemed keen to spend the summer with his cousin, which she could understand given that this was his only family in England. In the meantime, although she’d been dreading the time away in France with her parents, things had not been as bad as she feared, at least not in the beginning. It helped that Grandma and Grandad were not there at the same time, and that the weather in St. Jean was heavenly. There was also Madame Pagnole’s Provençal cooking, which could never be underestimated. Vanessa’s school friend, Jane, had come to join them for a few days, too, so all was going well until Mother received the letter from Nancy Murdoch.
‘N’ for notoriously nattering, nitwit Nancy who wrote to inform them (never asking, always announcing) that she and her husband would be visiting over the Bastille holiday. Father was delighted. Mother was furious.
Mr. Murdoch had been Father’s friend for many years. They met in 1945 while taking the summer course at Oxford in preparation for colonial service. It was there that they both learnt their first few words of local African languages as well as acquiring some knowledge of tropical medicines and diet. Mr. Murdoch was subsequently posted to Tanganyika while Father had gone to Nigeria, but they had stayed in touch over the years.
In Dependence Page 6
